


Unannounced

by riverbed



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Accidental Watersports, Established Relationship, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, being wrecked basically, out of his mind illya, subtle d/s undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 02:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5075017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon's as surprised as Illya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unannounced

**Author's Note:**

> Some poor soul on the kink meme "needed" Napoleon driving Illya to multiple orgasms before accidental watersports, and though I've never written anything remotely in this ballpark before and never even considered it, the [prompt](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=946304#cmt946304) intrigued me. So... here's that, albeit probably softer and more a relationship study than the OP probably really wanted.
> 
> Godspeed.

Napoleon looks so good from this angle.

Illya's muscles feel wrung out from toes to forehead, completely relaxed after two slowly-built orgasms, and still Napoleon works between his thighs, sensitive to the way Illya's body shivers under a certain brush, a certain pressure, his touch light but attentive. His tongue laves wet across Illya's perineum, and the spit drips down to help further ease the fingers Solo's got in his ass. Napoleon didn't remove them through the second orgasm, just kept the pads of two pressed firmly against his prostate and added a third in the throes, filling Illya delightfully and feeling his body open under him.

Solo's eyes are on him over the little curve of Illya's belly, and they watch each other, Napoleon drifting a bit higher with his mouth to run his lips over his balls, stained with sweat and come but still full and firm, Illya staring him down as he works. His cock jumps against his thigh, and Napoleon grins, and Illya resigns himself to a new round of torture.

Napoleon knows just the way to play Illya's body like a fine instrument, coax out all the most wonderful sounds, make it arch and supplicate for him. He knows when to touch and where, has learned to read each and every signal Illya gives, and he knows how to tease orgasm after orgasm out of him without hurting. Illya finds this fascinating, this aspect of Napoleon - his ability to be so in-tune, so focused and unselfish, even when day to day he seems so distractible.

Before they had ever slept together Illya had assumed Solo was the sort of man who took what he needed and left, but their first time had been a doting-upon of Illya and a non-ending for Solo, a dedicated mouth on his cock and a lot of swearing and that had been it, with Illya going limp against the door they were pressed against and Solo looking up at him from where he had knelt, fully dressed, on the floor, wiping his face with his sleeve and smiling. He had given him a knowing, signature wink before leaving Illya alone with his thoughts and his Chinese takeout, heading to the bathroom of his flat to freshen up. Illya had eaten in silence and resolved to even the score, but when Solo returned all he had been interested in were deep kisses and tender murmurs of endearment. At first this pattern, this uneven playing field, had disturbed Illya, and it had taken some serious reassuring from Napoleon that it was what he actually wanted out of this, to be able to dote and worship, and eventually Illya had gotten the hang of it, had settled into his role as the one who comes first.

Now he lies with his thick thighs spread wide on Napoleon's bed, his bare feet planted next to Napoleon's sides, and watches as a curl of dark hair falls in his partner's eyes, watches the furrow of concentration at his brow as he takes him into his mouth once more, his eyes closing as he tastes the salt and sweet of his skin, and Illya's vision goes a little blurry but he keeps his eyes on the show. He feels high, floating, able to keep this fluctuation between dizzy and profoundly relaxed forever though logically he knows his body would never abide that. But it feels good to indulge, especially in their line of work, one so intent on beating and bruising them and sometimes almost killing them. It's a needed respite to smell Napoleon this closely and not be holding him still while he bleeds, or to place his ear against his chest and expect fully to feel its steady rise and fall. He finds himself desperate to be reminded of their humanity, of their ability to survive in the face of the mortality that follows them. He needs a way back from the danger of their high-octane lifestyle, some semblance of normality, of domesticity, of this - of the soft bite of his lover’s aftershave, fondness and laughter in his eyes, the feeling of truly complementing another person.

He thinks his pale leg complements Solo’s tanned skin well as Napoleon leans harder against it and begins pumping his cock with his hand, smiling contentedly up at him. It’s not a wry or teasing smile - it’s even more genuine, relaxed and loving, full of unspoken permission. Illya gasps as a patch of callous on Napoleon’s hand brushes against an especially sensitive spot, and Solo moans, still staring at him, and Illya can’t bring himself to break the spell as he peaks again, white static fading the sides of his vision so all he sees is Napoleon, Napoleon licking his parted lips, Napoleon, whom he vaguely knows has still got his fingers inside him, working him further and further open.

Their eyes are still locked as he comes down once more, and Napoleon places a warm hand on his stomach and the fingers that were inside him are gone and Illya whines, just a little bit, at the loss, but Napoleon climbs up his body and braces himself on his elbows to kiss his neck, then his jaw, then his mouth, and Illya feels better then. His dick is soft between them, and Napoleon’s is half-hard and he gyrates his hips in small circles, using his leverage to rub their lower bodies together, sweet friction shooting straight through Illya’s spine mixed with tinges of pain at the oversensitivity. He groans into Napoleon’s mouth and bites and tugs at his lower lip until he tastes iron, and Napoleon gasps and moans back into him.

Solo finally breaks the kiss, and the bright red swell of his lips is intoxicating, so Illya brings a hand up to run his thumb across them. Napoleon smiles at him. “Can you take another?” he asks him, running a protective hand up and down the right side of his ribcage. “I love seeing you like this,” he says absently, studying the pale stubble coming in on Illya’s jaw. Illya can’t speak so he just nods slowly, and grips Napoleon’s hair as he sinks back down the bed.

Napoleon starts this time with his butt, encouraging Illya’s legs up and apart again to spread him for easier access and flicking his tongue against his pink hole, already slick with come. Illya shudders and rolls his shoulders, relaxing again into the pillow. He knows Napoleon will draw this out, and that he has to take it, because it’s what he needs and it’s what Napoleon needs. But it’s getting to be so much - tears well up behind his eyes, and he can feel his cock filling again and it hurts but he also wants fulfillment so badly. He chokes back the temptation to whine, arching and shivering as Solo brushes his fingers lightly against his cock and he has no right teasing right now, not after so much, and the frustration builds further in him and then he feels it, right as Napoleon wraps his rosebud lips around his half-limp dick and sinks his head down on it, enveloping him in hot wet - feels the pang of panic that comes with a bodily function unassociated with what they are currently doing, and he tries to warn Napoleon but after a few minutes he realizes that babbling his name over and over is having no effect. Napoleon is stroking his stomach and up and down his thighs, kneading his most rarely-massaged muscles, and Illya is a lost cause and his bladder needs relief because they’ve been at this for hours. Before he realizes what is happening Napoleon makes a shocked noise and gives him a peculiar look that lasts a split second and if Illya were anybody else he wouldn’t have noticed it; as it is, he barely does.

Napoleon tastes the unmistakable bitterness that suddenly mixes with the slight sourness of Illya’s precome, and the liquid is lighter, and he’s surprised but not offended. Somewhere in him he registers that it’s not exactly healthy to drink piss and he pulls his mouth off his partner, consciously ensuring his expression is sympathetic and content as he looks up at him. He continues his work against Illya’s prostate, and Illya’s moaning and sobbing, whispering apologies before he even finishes emptying his bladder. Solo thinks it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen - something about the comfort he brings Illya sends a pang to his heart, and then to his groin - and he spits loudly on his fingers and pumps his own cock hard a few times, feeling the power of undoing his fine, composed Russian so wholly course through him, and it doesn’t take much until he’s coming, lying perpendicular to Illya with his head pillowed on his strong thigh and arching into his own fist. Out of his mouth comes a list of the ways he can say the word love, languages and synonyms and gibberish intermingling.

He rouses a few moments later to find himself gazed at by fresh ice, gray-blue frosted over like a winter sky. But the quirk at the corner of Illya’s lips is warm and so is the crook of his body Napoleon has fitted himself into, and he stretches his arms above his head, careful to mind the shared space. He brings his hands back down to encircle the ankle of the leg he’s laying on, running one up and down Illya’s calf. The bed is a bit wet but probably not to a worse extent than it would have been in any case, after tonight. He studies Illya carefully, feeling as undone as he supposed Illya had felt a few minutes ago.

“Are you…” he prompts, just to fill the quiet.

“ _Yes_ ,” Illya says emphatically, shutting his eyes.


End file.
